One Sweet Divergence
by Jebus Creiss
Summary: But seriously – 'I just wanted a happy ending? He didn't know whether to feel insulted his friends bought it, or burst out laughing that Sweet did too… Post-S6:7 'Once More, With Feeling', Xander accepts the price and makes his own play for power.
1. Damn you, Murphy!

**Disclaimer:** (looks down at scales) …Nope, wrong weight for Joss Whedon.

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: **_language, sexual references_

**Number:** 1/2 (or 3, but probably 2).

**Summary:** But seriously – '_I just wanted a happy ending_'? He didn't know whether to feel insulted his friends bought it, or burst out laughing that Sweet did too… Post-S6:7 'Once More, With Feeling', Xander accepts the price and makes his own play for power.

**Pairings:** canon.

**A/N:** As amusing and fun as I find it to write Xander, it's often exceedingly difficult not to look at the Sweet thing and not shake my head at the man's sheer stupidity. This would be my attempt to reconcile that with the versions of him I tend to write – without taking the easy out of 'the fates made him do it'…

* * *

**Tangent Stage Left: One Sweet Divergence**

**Part !: Damn you, Murphy!**

—**ox-oxo-xo—**

Anya Christina Emmanuella Jenkins was a study in contrasts. She was logical, except for when she wasn't. She was honest, so brutally straightforward that one could easily forget that she had thrived for a thousand years in a vocation which embodied the phrase 'be careful what you wish for', not to mention 'to the letter of the agreement'. She was self-centred to such a degree that she had arbitrarily switched from advocating communism for humanity (albeit merely to her circle of friends and colleagues, in her customarily intense equivalent of water-cooler talk) to promoting capitalism and the profit motive when it became clear to her that _she'd_ be the one to live with that choice.

And she loved Xander Harris, even if she had no visceral clue what to do with that beautiful, terrible knowledge, or how it came about in the first place.

Xander mused, in the cushioned, sweat-drenched depths of his couch, that it was probably because after a millennium of immortality, she thought of her human life in terms of the trappings, the trimmings, the material achievements. It was like she'd woken up to find herself living a computer game, and dealt with the freak-out by racking up the trophies with a single-mindedness that was awesome and unnerving to behold. The Game of Post-Demonic Life, played on Hellmouth Mode as a Human – and only one life to play with, which might be stretched out over a few decades if she was careful and lucky. No wonder she went as a Merchant.

"_The hardest thing in this world is to live in it."_ Sing it, sister!

It was easier to point to those trappings, when her fear of mortality came a-knockin'. Each shiny prize denoted one more weight on the plus-scale of her current existence, the one that determined whether or not she had sufficient worth for her liking. Anyanka had been evil, but she had known to her evil bones her worth, her purpose.

Xander loved her for so many reasons. A lot of them, more than their mutual friends liked to realise, were bound in their similar personalities. Both were logical, almost always logical in fact, at least by their own internal logics – because in their world, sometimes conventional logic was just…pointless. Counter-productive, even. Both were honest, yet both reflexively relied on the context unspoken and the lost-in-translation and the incurious listener's need for simple explanations that were centred on _them_ to convey as much of that honesty as they needed to express, and no more. (And there were, of course, some things that they might not lie about – but they'd never tell…) Both plunged themselves wholeheartedly into whatever cause, whatever purpose they believed in, whether as a reflection of their worth or in efforts to justify it.

Anya had told him once, that he'd have made a pretty good justice demon. He'd been aghast. But somewhere deep inside, in a place that he'd never tell of, the compliment had been noted and valued for its harsh, merciless truth that was _meant_ as a truth.

She made him feel like a man. Like an adult. Like an equal, or something close enough – he'd always had a thing for strong women, _especially_ when he also got the chance to be strong sometimes, too. Some aspects of the other were always going to be impossible to understand, but that was normal. She'd never been a man. He'd never been a vengeance demon…or a woman. They were their own people, and they understood that and moved along.

Oh, and let's not forget the sex.

It really _was_ a pity about those trappings though, sometimes at least. Because Anya clung religiously to the trappings. Like pop-culture for immigrants to ape in hopes of fitting in, like iconic brand-names for the _nouveau riche_ to follow in their fumbling steps along the old money's eccentric path, the metaphorical shiny things were the cues to her life as a human. Anya was a material girl, and not just in actual material – there were behaviour patterns to track and emulate, rational shortcuts to nip down and lessen the frivolous waste of precious, mortal time lost in worrying over things. She'd asked him to the prom, because the prom was a trapping. She'd wanted a kiss before she left, because that was what the romance stories demanded – another trapping. The sex had started out as a way to remove a trapping she didn't want – only to become another, far more pleasurable trapping. One that she could count off as each came, no less…pun intended.

Tonight, though, was the night for another trapping. Namely, the cliché that came with an unresolved argument:

The woman was _never_ the one relegated to the couch. _Ever_. No matter _whose_ fault it was or wasn't.

Which meant him lying alone on his uncomfortable 'resting place'. He really should've thought of that when he picked the damn thing… But to be fair to the maligned item of furniture, his restlessness tonight had very little to do with its lack of sympathy for his often-spongy muscles, and far more to do with the images that assaulted him when he tried to sleep on it tonight.

How many people had gone up in flames, since Sweet came to town?

How many deaths could be laid at his feet?

Xander gazed ruefully at the pendant and the book that had kicked off the whole mess, sitting innocently in his hands after he'd rummaged under the couch and pulled them out.

Not that _he'd_ been the one to summon Sweet, not really. Technically it had indeed been Dawn – it was just her brand of luck to go stealing a partially-activated summoning artefact, even worse than his brand of luck (which tended to lean more in the direction of easiest humiliation more than anything else, though there was plenty of pain and a certain amount of death to stack on top of that). Seriously though – '_I just wanted a happy ending_'? He didn't know whether to feel insulted at the way his friends (and Spike) had bought it, or start laughing hysterically at the way Sweet had _also_ bought it. Yeesh, he could practically mouth along to what they must've thought – '_Oh look, Xander's playing with magic _again_, what a _surprise_, mm-hmm – when will he ever grow up and learn to leave it to the people who know what they're doing?_'

Really? Sidekick he might be – a fucking _mascot_ he wasn't. And besides, it had not at all, not in any way, escaped his notice that the so-called experts had dragged Buffy out of _heaven_. _Or_ the way that the closing finale had ebbed towards its big swelling flourish while missing Buffy and Spike – what was the bet that they had their own lines to sing, for each other's ears only? What did _that_ say about the people who were supposed to know what they were doing?

Actually… He had a pretty good idea. One that he really, _really_ didn't want to admit. But still a good idea.

On reflection, the whole 'happy ending' excuse was exactly what he'd have gone with. Back then, though, he'd been very, very rattled – at first by the unvoiced suspicions coming horribly true about something being _truly_ wrong with Buffy – and just blurted out the first thing to mouth.

First it was Buffy – and then by _Spike_, of all leashed monsters, singing all those wise, pretty words about _life_.

They had sang their peccadilloes, their frustrations, their fears, their deepest secrets (or at least _some_ of them, for which he was infinitely thankful). And while their words had been caged in verse and rhythm and blown all out of proportion in spots, they had been honest. They had been true. Sometimes hurtfully so, often misleadingly so in the way of all rash words spoken in the heat of the moment, but true.

Spike was a _vampire_, had been one for over a century. The words were right, and had rightfully talked Buffy out of her self-destruction (he grimaced) – but, out of _Spike's_ mouth they were a soulless parody.

Sweet had called it a 'number', and that also sounded right. He wasn't _that_ much for musicals even before this, but Xander thought he could follow the plot here. Heroine is alone, abandoned by her friends, is in the depths of despair, until the hero saves her and she is given hope.

Strange, that. He distinctly remembered that happening once already. Strange, how that just happened to lead on to Buffy getting with the undead 'hero'. Strange, how there just happened to be another undead 'hero' handy for this number, too… of course _this_ one wouldn't lose his soul if he got his 'happy ending', but that was only because he didn't have one to start with.

Yup. Someone up there was enjoying this. Or down there. Or both. Considering the sheer amount of shit dumped on all of them over the years, he didn't think which Side was doing it was all that important any more.

Him, His People, His Girls, His Girl, were being screwed with. And he had once again been the unwitting vehicle.

Because he was weak. And any attempt on his part to get stronger seemed to bring disaster on its heels.

—ox-oxo-xo—

_There was some truly scary stuff in those dusty old books. This he'd known from the very first one he'd picked up. Back in high school, it was one of the Scoobies' ever-so-slightly morbid practices in times of dire, research-inflicted boredom to call out some of the more outright ridiculous bits of demonic trivia. But all of them had come across _other_ bits, bits so sickening that they would instantly break out that lovely, lovely prescription known as Sunnydale Syndrome: Scooby Dosage – the finest blend of pretend after trying to rape your friend, dying in an underground cavern, being seduced by a demonic robot, getting hot and heavy with the mother of one of your students, and a plethora of whatever it is that's ailing you _this_ time._

_But at least most of what they found in Giles' library collection was about demons. What they found in the Magic Shoppe once Giles took _that_ over… Sometimes, even upping the make-believe dosage didn't work._

_After the Dark Mas…_Dracula_, though, Xander started trying to put away the medication._

_Buffy was the Slayer, and every Big Bad she defeated just made her more powerful. Willow was getting ever-witchier, with Tara by her side aiding and abetting her, and was getting scary-powerful. Giles was running the Magic Shoppe, and importing books by the crate – he wasn't getting more powerful, _per se_, but was getting more experienced, more comfortable, more knowledgeable; and knowledge had always been Giles' power. Xander, though? He wasn't even being left in their wake – no, he'd been floundering and trying to coast along even keeping them in his sight. He was basically the one-percenter with an occasional idea or a plan that got them over the line, an older version of Dawn who could drive and bring in a paycheck._

_He was Normal Guy. He was the Buttmonkey. And as the thing with the Ferula Gemina went to show, it was a lucky day when the Buttmonkey days only happened to _him_ instead of happening to other people around him._

_In Toth's wake, Xander could see two paths forward, two ways to find his self-worth. The two ways weren't mutually exclusive, not to a point at least, but sooner or later he'd have to either make a call as to which he'd follow, or find some way to juggle them both. The first: that encapsulated by his Confident Xander traits – the confidence to be a success at work, earn a _good_ paycheck and make his way up the ranks; the confidence to stake his claim on the American Way… and when the time was right, the confidence to walk away from the fight and trust the ones with the supernatural power to keep the world going. To leave behind his purpose, and just live his life like a man anyway._

_It was the way Anya would prefer, no doubt about it. She was there because…well, he didn't want to be conceited about it, but because Xander was there. Oh, and because co-existing with the Slayerettes cut down on the number of awkward questions about her persistent inability to fit in. And her job, because she was apparently making a bundle helping run the store, and a bigger bundle investing the first bundle. Point being, if Xander chose to walk away, then Anya would follow without more than a slightly guilty farewell to the others. And the 'guilt' would be but another trapping, one she exhibited only because the social situation called for it._

_The second path: that encapsulated by… by the Xander who, in a basement under the high school in senior year, told a psychopathic zombie that he liked the quiet. The conviction to stay fighting the good fight – but more, the conviction to do anything, _anything_, that would help win that fight. And, the realisation that, just because he walked away or was pushed away from the fight, didn't mean that the fight would leave him out of it._

_As long as he was weak, and still connected to the fight, he was going to be the Buttmonkey. So he began to keep his eyes and his mind open, keeping feelers out for a way to gain that strength, that power he needed to _stop_ being the Buttmonkey – provided it was a price he felt he could pay._

_But as stated, there were two paths to follow, and he could follow both for a while yet._

—ox-oxo-xo—

There was a saying: 'Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.' This was something Xander had noted fit exceptionally well with supernatural power-ups, which made the paths to power a risky and time-consuming proposition. So many of them required the person seeking power to be corrupted already just to even consider it, or implied advancing corruption as it was mastered. Most of them, like Willow's resurrection spell, had some ingredients and pre-requisites which said a lot about the person willing to even _use_ them, let alone get their hands on them.

It was mind-boggling, the lengths available for people to go to. It was sadly unsurprising, though, that Xander wasn't willing to go to most of those lengths. Where the price wasn't too high to pay, Willow had her own proprietary interests and wouldn't even think about letting Xander wander into them. Not even Tara or Giles would help him there.

Anya had long forsaken her own paths to mystical power, largely because she had trouble thinking of herself as anything along those lines other than being the vengeance demon she had been. But she had less trouble thinking of Xander going at least a little way along those other paths – if for no other reason than because their relationship was less likely to come to a horrible end if Xander had some power as opposed to none. Xander leaving the fight was still the preferred option, but if he was still going to fight, then Xander-with-power was arguably better than remaining as the Buttmonkey. So she'd had some suggestions. Most had been useless to him, more like demonology than magic, but he'd had his own ideas as a result.

So he'd gone thumbing through his old tabletop games for inspiration, ticking off options against what he'd already read.

Warrior was out – great as it looked from a distance, he'd already had bad experiences with those kinds of power-ups. (And if Marine had any hope of working without the kind of screw-ups you could expect when dependent on illegal avenues of resupply, he would have stuck with that years ago.) Mage was out – Willow, along with Tara and Giles had those covered, and Xander had something of a bad rep (undeserved, but there nevertheless) for being hopeless at the magics. Cleric was out – for that kind of thing, you needed to _believe_, and Xander didn't. (That, and Anya would kill him if he even _thought_ about taking celibacy vows.) Rogue was out, and sounded both pointless and dangerous anyway; same for Demonologist, only with added ickiness and danger. And anything with cutting-edge technology was right out.

Archer sounded good, and he'd actually toyed with the idea – but to get even _close_ to good enough at that would take years of practice and repetition and building up specific muscle groups, and Buffy could get that down in days if she wanted. And Bard sounded flat-out useless…

…until he ran across Anya's latest consignment. At which point he'd had a flash of inspiration, where several bits of trivia and knowledge had come together into something that might be worth trying.

Their lives on the Hellmouth, and the way it all seemed to run like a soap-opera sometimes. Not to mention Murphy, and the way that spirit of bad timing liked to hover over them all with malicious glee. Xander was well aware that people elsewhere got away with saying things like 'glad that's over', 'this can't possibly get worse', the W-word and other such expressions all the time. That just never happened here, especially with them.

A piece of Star Wars backstory, about one of the less flashy yet ridiculously effective Jedi tricks. Battle-meditation, as Xander understood it, was the knack of tuning in with the Force of a given area to ride the ebbs and flows of battle and nudge the probabilities to tip luck the way of one side of the combatants. In short, a way to entice the spirit of Murphy to _your_ side, which was nothing to be sneezed at.

The Bards of Dungeons and Dragons, and the things they could do with their music. They'd already run into Hansel and Gretel, the Invisible Man (Girl), and a bunch of other things which could have come from various horror movies and fairy tales – chances were there was a Pied Piper running around somewhere…probably on goat-legs, come to think of it. But Xander also knew that bands and minstrels had also marched with armies in medieval times, not only to help the soldiers keep time in their manoeuvres but also to buoy their spirits for the coming battles. It was a pity that Oz had missed that trick. And that Giles was still missing that trick.

Though Giles might have put that option aside because of Eyghon. The book that had been missorted into the other crate, the one that _didn't_ contain the box of a dozen Sweet-summoning pendants, had listed out a great many options for their use; however, Sweet was a demon that represented song and dance in the same way that D'Hoffryn and his subordinates represented justice and vengeance. Giles couldn't be blamed for wanting to avoid the kinds of power-ups that demons handed out, not after his own bad experience with one of them.

Many of the pendants' uses were repugnant to him. But there was one which, after a certain amount of thought and one spark of inspiration, Xander decided was actually kinda appealing – especially when he considered that, through one plan or mishap or another, he had actually _already_ filled the pre-requisites for that option.

To act in concert (the Enjoining spell), to lead (the Graduation Day battle), to serve (Dracula); to betray (the Lie about the soul curse), to desert (through Spike's efforts, before the Enjoining spell), and to act alone (the bomb in the school basement) – he had done not just some, but _all_ of these. To ensnare hearts (commissioning the Valentine's Day spell), to break them (the Fluke), and to restore them (the 'hero' speech to Buffy) were three more requirements that he'd already filled. He'd even both killed and resurrected a loved one (Jesse and Buffy, both in sophomore year).

And when that wealth of experience was combined with a few mildly dark ingredients and two rituals that were nowhere near as freaky as the resurrection spell Willow had dragooned them all into, the promised result would be something that apparently worked a lot like the divination powers that anagogic demon buddy of Angel's had, only with whistling or humming as the medium instead of singing. On the one hand, it would only be a lite version of that – but on the other hand, Xander could see the plus side of even _that_ much foresight. It would be like the knowledge of Murphy that the Scoobies had already picked up over the years, only more accurate and a little more specific.

Even better was the bit about increased ability with musical instruments, and the uses they might be able to be put to if he developed both his skills and his powers; while there was a definite hint of mind-manipulation to the more advanced practices, those dangers were obvious and so obviously easy to avoid. And best of all, Xander could trigger all this with just a partially-activated pendant – and because it was just a sharpening of the wiggins-senses that anyone with half a brain could theoretically develop all on their lonesome, Sweet wouldn't even need to be supplicated to in person. So Xander could get his power-up in a relatively safe area which none of the others had gone or wanted to go, beef it up and fine-tune it over the coming months and years, and could do all that without ever actually getting Sweet involved!

…Or at least, that was the theory. The theory that didn't involve witches. Evil, pendant-stealing witches who must've somehow got their hands on another pendant other than the one he'd hung onto for the ritual or the eleven he'd destroyed both because they were dangerous and because partially activating one would automatically do the same for all the others in the box. (Fortunately, the relevant song hadn't called for that much detail on his part, although that was just as much down to Willow and Tara getting offended over the whole 'evil witches' bit. Ironic, huh Wills?)

As it turned out afterwards, there had been thirteen pendants in the box, not twelve. Because the accompanying book had been in the other crate, Anya hadn't immediately known what it was, and so had left that last pendant out for Giles to take a look at when he had the chance… only for Dawn to exhibit her growing kleptomaniac tendencies and pinch the damn thing – and then unwittingly piggyback on top of his own first ritual in the week-long gap between that and the second ritual, the one which would've cemented the deal.

Although…

Xander sat up, turned the light on after making sure the door to their bedroom was closed, and started flicking through the book. If what he recalled was right, this last pendant was no longer activated after Sweet's departure. But if his luck was running true to form, there was a good chance it was still just activated enough to summon Sweet yet again…

…Nope. The Buttmonkey Syndrome had struck again.

That was, the version of it where the symptoms stuck around for just long enough for the fates that laughed at him to take advantage for maximum pain. The pendant was no longer activated – but that also invalidated the first ritual that he'd cast, which meant he'd have to start all over again. And unlike last time, Sweet's attention had definitely been drawn beforehand. Sweet was gone – but he wouldn't _stay_ gone if he went trying the rituals again.

In other words: no soup for you!

Dammit.

Xander glumly skimmed through the rest of the book for lack of anything else to do, indulging in a morose round of Laugh at the Stupid Would-be Warlocks and their Convoluted Plans of Evil Stupidness: Solitaire Version. If anything, the rest of it was even worse than the first half of the book.

And then the last pages caught his attention.

The requirements were more of the same as the one he'd just tried. There were other, harder ones to fulfill, though, some of which he didn't qualify for. Not that he wanted to qualify for them – the one about his lover being abandoned and killed, and the one about losing an important body part and becoming disfigured being two in particular. (Ironically, he'd probably count for the 'murderer' part, what with Sweet being summoned.) There were others which were just unlikely and virtually impossible to plan for, like the one about first appropriating and then rejecting an item of power over hearts and minds, or the one about being prepared for and then saved from being a sacrifice, or the one about first abducting and then being foiled and overpowered by one's abductee.

If anything, this one sounded even more impossible than the attempted ritual had been at first glance. And while the reward sounded powerful as all hell (well, all _one_ hell in particular anyway), the downside was a massive one for anyone who treasured the normal life. Although… he supposed if he'd just gone through all those new and excruciatingly painful pre-requisites, it might be a different story. Or, y'know, if he was a magnificent (and evil) bastard who somehow manipulated all that into happening. Which he definitely wasn't.

Honestly, the only reason he stopped to read it at all was the section header, which had him chuckling bitterly: 'The Dance-Off'.

_Oh well_, he thought as the sky began to lighten outside. A new day of work beckoned. But first, he should probably check in with Anya. Just because Xander had spent the night on the couch, didn't automatically mean that she would be averse to him giving her orgasms or breakfast before he left for the jobsite. God how he loved this woman…

* * *

**Ending A/N:** So thus far, we have…no divergence, none at all. Next chapter, as hinted at, is where the tangent runs…


	2. Damn you, Xander…

**Disclaimer:** (sings a few notes) …Nope, wrong pitch for Joss Whedon. Also, wrong accent.

**Rating: T**

**Number:** 2/3(?)

**Summary:** The tricky thing about divergence seeds is that they're not always immediately obvious, or immediate for that matter. Post-S7:22 'Chosen' (but prior to AtS-S5:1 'Conviction'), the hammer is finally drawn back…

**Pairings:** still canon.

**A/N:** Yep – no change in canon up to the end of Season Seven. This is the sort of divergence that apparently springs up out of nowhere, because its seed was actually planted in subtle fashion (ie. slid into an empty spot in the canon timeline) a fair way back to hide its origins. For GD, it was a few months – here, it was over a year-and-a-half back. Either way, here comes the wind-up…  
Also: yay, new laptop, finally! Soz for the posting delays.

* * *

**Tangent Stage Left: One Sweet Divergence**

**Chapter 2: Damn you, Xander…**

—**ox-oxo-xo—**

The roller door retracted upwards with a prolonged metallic rattle, the noise making Xander suppress a wince as his head pounded in counterpoint. Wincing was bad, when your eye had just been ripped out not two weeks ago and the rest of your face was still not healed all the way up yet. And crossing Willow's ward-line did his headache no favours either.

Xander carefully stepped over and found the light switch, dim fluorescent beams illuminating the storage lock-up. His lone eye drifted over the moderately well-organised contents as it adjusted to the diminished light after being exposed to the sunny early-summer afternoon just outside. There was no real hurry – this was basically makework. Rustle up a couple things, check on a few others; any one of the baby Slayers could have done this…if, that was, they could pass the ward-line.

Xander and Willow had set up this L.A. storage lock-up back during the unavoidable five-month hiatus in the life of Buffy, and it had last been visited by him over the previous summer to tuck away some of the surplus…_stuff_ they'd all collected over the year. (Probably they should have made time to come here and bank some more stuff before they'd thrown down between the jaws of Hell, but it was too late to think about that _now_, wasn't it?) More to the point, Willow's original spellwork only allowed for certain people to enter the lock-up without tripping the wards, and she hadn't had the chance to visit and update her work since stopping over to help with Angel's missing soul problem. So for now it was just the original Scoobies left on the invite list, though she'd been making noises about checking her work over. Personally he thought it more likely they'd just take it all with them when they moved…wherever they were moving.

There was a no-smoking sign on the wall. Given that he could now read the lettering, Xander figured that his vision had adjusted as much as it was going to. A clipboard was carefully examined, to check over exactly what he was retrieving and where it was most likely to be found. (No offence to her, but standard warehousing systems weren't something Willow tended to pay attention to – especially when it came to explaining the intricacies of _arcane_ warehousing. 'Most likely', in this instance, translated to where Xander would put it. But chances were he'd have to look from top to bottom for at least one thing on the list.)

Again though, no rush. Sure, this had to be done soonish – but it was still basically makework.

Giles had made the right noises to placate the various teen-Oprah-like sensibilities that surrounded him nowadays, offering to talk with Xander about feelings and suchlike, but the Watcher had been perfectly willing to help him deal with things in his own way once the obligatory offer had been made and rejected. Xander had caught the flash of relief in the older man's eyes as they started generating and running over checklists of what needed to be done in the short- and mid-term to pave the way for their next move. True, using work as a distraction was probably not healthy, but Xander wasn't alone in his choice of coping mechanism. Many of the new Slayers were throwing themselves into their training, and for all of Buffy's anticipation of some much-needed vacation time, she was pressing her nose to the grindstone to get the set-up hammered out as well.

They'd all lost a lot of people. But in management parlance, that just meant less people to do more work.

Anya would've been key here…

His eye socket prickled warningly. Xander gathered himself – even ignoring all his own baggage, crying _hurt_ these days.

…Seriously though, Anya would have been one very useful woman to have on hand. She'd had a well-acknowledged knack for eking out those little yet all-important slivers of profit in every transaction, even the ones that weren't so obvious. Sure, the rest of them would've rejected the less morally acceptable ones, but it helped just to know the option existed in case it could be applied elsewhere or in better ways.

(As for Spike…? Well, he didn't particularly care for himself. But he could see how Buffy, and Dawn to a lesser extent, would leap on the distraction.)

Xander blinked, and pursed his lips as he looked back down at the list. Enough lollygagging – he was here to be distracted, not to stand around moping like Sir Mopesalot, brand new C.E.O. of Evil and Eviller.

Some of the listed inventory was small and easily transportable, but there were one or two bulkier items, so he trundled out the pallet-jack and started picking. His lips moved as he worked out that he needed three different containers to avoid contamination or adverse reactions between different spell components and one artefact. (It was _so_ much easier for him back in Sunnydale once he'd realised it was just like a different system of handling Dangerous Goods that he needed to learn – though it took a mix of Giles, Anya and nearly a week of slave labour at the Magic Shoppe before Xander learned enough to be trusted with the standard consignments, let alone the odd ones. Willow's run-on explanations had not helped in the slightest.) He ambled here and there, occasionally having to examine the shelves more carefully for the more recent items that Willow hadn't quite correctly sorted.

At one point, pulling out a thick tome that was on the list, he happened to spot one of the few books that was from his own collection (though not in a technical sense, no-one had noticed that). He spent the next minute determinedly humming an old snippet of less-painful catchiness from Monty Python – _'He's going to tell, he's going to tell'_ – and thought no more on it…

…Until he had to return to that shelf, and pull out another book that was next to it. And as that book tipped over into the newly made gap, a tiny clunk sounded as something slipped out from the back cover and tapped to a stop on the wooden shelving. Xander added the book in his hand to the large crate on the pallet, and investigated the loose object.

And he remembered.

And he took out the book it had fallen out of, flicking with a strange look in his eye over the last few pages where the amulet had slipped from.

And he laughed, long and hard and bitter and broken.

"…_Could somebody, give me a little push?_"

* * *

When the time came for long-term assignments to be handed out, Rupert Giles had painstakingly taken into account the various strengths, weaknesses and – not to put too fine a point on it – living conditions and stress levels of each person to be sent off to their missions. Or, at least he had tried to do so. In practice, there was only so much that could be reasonably accomplished with their current range of personnel. And even with the best of intentions, there could not but occur problems of a nature which he had failed to anticipate…or at least, hoped to avoid but failed to do so.

Robin Wood to remain in Cleveland, both to co-ordinate Hellmouth duties and to start their temporary schooling/training facility – that had worked gratifyingly well, considering the Hellmouth it was situated in the vicinity of; Faith, on the other hand, had clearly not coped well after following him. Willow and Kennedy were doing rather well in Rio de Janeiro in some senses, but they dearly needed someone to handle the logistics – or more accurately, the _standardisation_ of their logistics – in an orderly, accountable and easily understood manner; not to mention reports that the partners were prone to treating their stationing as a long, leisurely vacation. (_Specifically_ not to mention it, in fact. Thoughts of Willow and Kennedy indulging in their 'vacation' activities did not help with his blood pressure…) Buffy and Dawn in Rome…well. That, he had anticipated to an extent, though reports of Buffy's brief fling with the Immortal had left him wanting to sink his face into his hands in despairing exasperation.

Xander's assignment was always going to be troublesome – not because of Xander himself, but because his 'assignment' was the second-largest continent in the world, with a myriad of language barriers besides. That said, Rupert had been pleasantly surprised with the work ethic that Xander had exhibited in putting together the Africa brief before it had even been assigned to him. From the very first, the young man's focus had been on either repairing or creating a continental network of Watchers and associated contacts; a centralised headquarters, Xander had argued should not be the first priority – the priority was finding as many Slayers as possible and linking them up both with reinforcements and with resources of knowledge. In fact, once that network got off the ground, Africa wouldn't really need an overall director so much as a co-ordinator for the dozen-plus roving strike-team branches scattered in compounds throughout various supernatural hot-spots. Rupert had been particularly impressed at the effort Xander had gone to, to make contact with first Samuel Zabuto and then through him an impressive number of former Watchers who had 'gone native', so to speak, and formed their own informal links over the course of decades. Simply tapping into that network, as potentially unreliable as parts of it might be ('going native' having more than one possible connotation, after all) had by itself turned Africa from a monumental task to a mere headache-and-a-half.

In fact, Rupert had been more than somewhat tempted to take Xander to England with him and see about squeezing in some formal Watcher training in between attempting to recover the old Council's resources and build anew. But Xander's unanticipated skills in the areas of reorganisation and logistics had essentially doomed him to the very assignment that he had spent so much effort putting together – he was a valuable and increasingly valued asset as a troubleshooter, and needed to be deployed as such until things calmed down and Rupert could recall him to smooth the edges off. And indeed, Xander had taken the assignment with not even a token protest.

It was the others who had protested, largely on the grounds of his safety (at least out of Xander's hearing – which was easy for them, given the way that he left for Cape Town without more than cursory warning). Robin had been easy to persuade, once he'd been given a chance to read the brief in detail and was then informed that Xander himself had written most of it; for Nikki Wood's son, his first impression of Xander had been that of a friendly but professional contractor, _not_ a goofy high-school student. Similar avenues of explanation had mostly reassured the others. Rupert's argument was two-pronged: firstly, that for all the innate dangers of the areas Xander was travelling, what he was actually doing was largely a managerial exercise in setting up branch offices (thus, implying that he would be keeping out of random regional fights) – and secondly, that the entire way that Xander himself had set up the brief augured for Africa being a temporary assignment. Once the groundwork was set, handing over the reins would be a simple matter. In short, Africa was not as dangerous as it looked, and he would be back in a few months, maybe a year.

As it turned out, he probably should have paid more attention to the 'temporary' part of that equation. Especially given that it was indeed Xander who had deliberately set it up that way.

Xander had spent a little over two months, repeatedly haring from one end of Africa to the other, forging together a coalition of former Watchers, magic users and a few relatively friendly demon clans. Already by that point there was a steady nucleus of nearly three dozen African Slayers, arrayed in trios with ex-Watcher and/or mystical backup, most of them actively seeking other Slayers between regional crises. Even better, great swathes of the continent were approaching both organisational and financial levels of self-sustainability – after all, certain First World currencies could stretch a long way in many parts of it, and a fair number of its governments were both amenable to and respectful of 'private security consultant agencies' that could be called in for certain matters which they knew better than to bring up with said First World nations in public settings. It was especially the case when said 'mercenaries' were often just as happy to negotiate for favourable treatment down the line as for material goods in exchange for their unfortunate yet essential services.

In short, it was increasingly looking like Xander Harris could be recalled only a few months after he'd set out.

Until he vanished.

And somehow prevailed on the African network to decline to enlighten one Director Rupert Giles regarding this state of affairs until nearly the end of November, when the Head Watcher formally adjudged Xander's assignment complete and asked for his recall to London.

—ox-oxo-xo—

That the ex-carpenter Xander Harris was not only virtually but _enthusiastically_ ignorant about most aspects of magic was almost a truism among his Sunnydale friends and acquaintances. So at first, paradoxically, the only reason they might have had to believe that Xander had _planned_ to disappear was the very fact that his subordinates had withheld that knowledge. And that wasn't to say that something hadn't possessed Xander and caused him to do so, either. After all, they figured, it wouldn't have been the first time…

But the inarguable fact was, that delay between disappearing and being discovered missing had proved to be crucial. It wasn't that Willow Rosenberg couldn't find him, though. It was that it would not be a quickly solved mystery. The relevant rituals established without ambivalence that Xander was no longer in Africa, or anywhere else on Earth for that matter. He wasn't in Heaven either, or at least not the one that Buffy had sojourned in. There _was_ an uncertainty to the matter of whether he was alive or dead, but again referencing contrasts between her friends unearthed the most likely conclusion that wherever he was, he now read a lot like Buffy in that he had died but been either revived or resurrected. Beyond that, however, the mystic trails had gone cold in that handful of weeks. Actually tracking down where he _was_, was a far more daunting task than eliminating the places where he _wasn't_.

That was never going to stop Xander's longest and best friend. At least, that was the case once Kennedy slapped some sense into her, in a case of excellent timing – the revelation of a missing Xander being a predictably horrible destabilising factor on Willow's sanity and impulse control.

(It's worth noting that, in a dark corner of Kennedy's heart, she subsequently looked forward to seeing Harris again so that she could brag about saving the world the same way he had – only with much more Slayer badassery that he could ever have pulled off. The rest of her heart was filled with a far more comfortable feeling of gratitude that she _was_ actually capable of steering Dark Willow back onto the rails. 'Cause honestly? That had been bugging her for a while, the fact that her best friend and old crush had been able to do something to save Willow that Kennedy hadn't been sure _she_ could.)

It was also Kennedy, having heard the most about Xander's exploits from her girlfriend's stories, who suggested a short-cut to the process of winnowing down where Xander was. If Willow was so sure that a demon was responsible and Xander was so prone to possession, maybe they should make a list of what demons Xander had run across over the years and figure out which ones might still have grudges? It was an idea that Willow grabbed hold of with both hands and a manic grin on her face – because as stated, eliminating where he wasn't was easier than following cold traces to where he was.

It was a long list. It would have been a much longer list, if not for a lot of the names on it being dead. And it did get longer anyway when Angel, having by now heard rumours from Andrew of Xander being A.W.O.L., faxed through his own intelligence reports and added some more names, most of them at least technically human. But regardless, the names were ruled out, one by one.

It still took nearly a month for Willow to find his signature, albeit…_altered_, deep within the speculated realm of a certain Ba'Joxan demon they'd entangled with over two years ago. But find it she did, and exasperated she did get. And after putting out the call to her friends overseas, one of the world's most powerful – not to mention, _impatient_ – Wiccan witches tore a hole into said hell dimension and barged inside to fetch her exceedingly _stupid_ Xander-friend.

When Willow returned two days later, it was to find that Buffy, Dawn and Giles had all climbed on planes and joined Kennedy in Rio. And when the portal re-opened, the mostly-reunited Scoobies were met with a Willow Rosenberg who was…distinctly nonplussed. And carrying a large 'gift' package that transpired to contain one book (for Giles), a three-foot roll of parchment with a annotated list written on it (for Willow), a hat-box in which nestled a surprisingly stylish fedora that appeared to have been woven and fused together from a dozen thin lengths of fire-darkened, polished ivory and banded with thin, pale leather (for Buffy), and a single, beautiful detailed white-gold pendant (for Dawn).

…But no Xander.

* * *

**Ending A/N:** More detail on the gifts in the final chapter… whenever I get around to finishing it. Though kudos to you if you can guess their significance.


End file.
